


A Heart Without Strings

by klairevoyance



Category: Fire Emblem Series, Fire Emblem: Fuukasetsugetsu | Fire Emblem: Three Houses
Genre: F/M, Fluff, Shameless Smut, totally self-indulgent
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2019-08-14
Updated: 2019-08-14
Packaged: 2020-09-01 00:29:06
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 2
Words: 5,922
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/20249152
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/klairevoyance/pseuds/klairevoyance
Summary: His face is full of precious metal— copper freckles, silver tongue.He's the most golden of them all. He always had been.





	1. Chapter 1

“A curse,” Lysithea murmurs. “A good one, too. I wouldn’t go near this, Professor.”

Her eyes follow the _ drip, drip _of purplish substance oozing from the spigot in the staff bath house. You stand by her side, towel in hand, wishing you’d paid a little more attention to Hanneman’s spell expulsion seminar last week. 

For a brief moment, you consider forgoing a bath entirely. A quick dip in the fishing pond might suffice, instead. You’d done it before, after a day filled with training, just to rid your body of clinging sweat.

On the other hand, today had been no ordinary day of training. The hellish desert beast you’d slain had, in its death throes, vomited a sort of viscous fluid, some of which was still clumped in your hair. That, paired with with annoying grate of sand in your every crevice, made your decision for you— the murky pond simply would not cut it. 

“There’s always the sauna,” Lysithea muses, mostly to herself. She packs her little magical instruments into her bag and slings it over her shoulder. “Although, at this time of night, you’ll probably have company.”

* * *

The doors of the monastery's public sauna loom forbiddingly in the yellow wash of the Horsebow Moon. Years of neglect had allowed tendrils of ivy to climb its stone-hewn walls, giving it a creepy, abandoned aura, despite the torchlight glowing from inside the windows.

Honestly, though, the same could be said about a majority of the monastery. Nature gnawed greedily at the edges of buildings, seeking to reclaim the earth they stood upon. Once-spotless hallways now collected dust, with mice and rats frolicking in their dark, forgotten corners. It was an odd sensation, knowing so much time had passed in what felt to you like mere moments. 

You’re greeted with a wave of sweet-smelling steam as you enter through the double doors. In the center of the room is the piping hot main bath, its smooth surface twinkling with light from the torch sconces. The dark tile inlaid in its basin makes it look much deeper than it is, as if it led straight to the core of the world.

To your great surprise, it’s totally empty. Not that you minded— on the contrary, you welcomed the solitude. The wet heat begins to loosen your shoulders from below your ears, and as you step into one of the changing enclaves you wonder idly why you don’t bathe in the sauna more often.

Oh, yeah. Because it was a _ public _ sauna, open to both faculty _ and _ students. You’d opted for the private faculty bath house in the past because the prospect of running into one of your students while you were less-than-decent made you shudder.

But they were older now. _ You _ may not be, but _ they _were. War had darkened their faces, hardened their bodies.

Their spirits.

You shake your head as you undress, as if doing so could dispel the sadness you felt. Sadness would not help you win this struggle. The students of the Garreg Mach Officer’s Academy were not students anymore. They were war-forged soldiers, tyrannical leaders, and—

“Hey, Teach! Didn’t think I’d see you here.” 

_ Shit. _You’d recognize that voice anywhere. 

“C-_ Claude!” _Your hands scramble for a towel, a weapon, _ anything _to shield yourself with as a tall figure appears from within the billows of steam.

“Ah, sorry! Sorry.”

To your horror, Claude is entirely nude, save for a thin cloth hitched around his hips. His skin is flushed, his cheeks red (whether with heat or embarrassment remained to be seen).

“Sorry,” he says again, pointedly averting his eyes. “Where I’m from, people are a little more, uh, _ blasè _towards nudity.”

You say nothing, still frozen in place with your towel clutched against your bare chest. Claude chuckles, and the sound rumbles deeply in his throat.

“Alright, tell you what. I’m gonna close my eyes and count to fifteen,” he sounds almost as if he’s talking to a child. “If you’re still standing there by the time I’m done, I’ll assume you _ want _me to see you like that.”

He does as he says, counting slowly, covering his eyes. Without hesitating, you grab your bar of soap and dart into the relative safety of the water. The steam curling from the surface conceals your naked body well enough— so long as you remain mostly submerged.

“Eleven, twelve… _ thirteenfourteenfifteen,” _Claude spins around, grinning broadly when he sees you in the bath. “Heh, I thought you’d split. Is it okay if I join?”

You nod, shuffling to the far side. The bath was large— big enough for maybe eight or nine people— with an underwater bench lining its perimeter and a raised stone platform in the center. Claude drops his cloth with no hesitation (you suddenly become very interested in the intricate skylights in the ceiling) and slips into the water. He places a bar of soap and some sort of salve on the stone platform before reclining against the edge of the bath, his eyes shut.

“Thanks,” he says, and his voice is somewhat softer than it was before. “Imagine the fuss this would’ve caused back in the day.”

“Fuss?” You repeat. Claude smirks.

“Y’know, professor and student meeting up for a midnight tryst,” he laughs. “It’s sort of scandalous.”

“I’m not your professor anymore,” you try (and fail) to hide your frown. Claude sinks further into the bath, wincing as the hot water envelops his shoulders.

“Right. Maybe one day, _ I’ll _ be the one teaching _ you _a few things,” he agrees with a trademark wink. “Hell, I think I might even be older than you, now.”

The notion brings an unwelcome flush back to your cheeks. Although Claude and his classmates had aged into young adults, you didn’t look a day older that you did five years ago. It wouldn’t surprise you if he’d passed you by during your apparent slumber.

“That’s twice now I’ve embarrassed you,” Claude notices the telltale look on your face. “I think that’s a new record. You’ve usually so collected, and…”

He pauses, his fingers dancing along the surface of the water.

“Unemotional?” You offer.

“Well, I was gonna say _stoic,_ but… yeah, I guess.”

His words don’t sting, not really. After all, he was telling the truth. It wasn’t that you _ didn’t _feel, per se, you just… struggled with expression.

But that had always been the case, regardless of your situation. Even your own father, as the light was leaving his eyes, said the only time he’d seen you cry was in that very moment.

His memory is difficult to brush away. You force yourself to focus on the room in front of you— the swirling claws of steam, the smell of perfumed water beneath your chin, the dim torchlight flickering from the walls, and Claude...

For once, he doesn’t seem obligated to fill the silence with his chatter. You watch him through an almost-closed eye as the bath saps the weight from your limbs. He drifts back and forth on his side of the bath, stretching his long arms, scrubbing his bar of soap through his unruly hair.

Then he turns away, and your blood runs cold when you see _ it _— a great, raw wound, tearing through the skin of his left shoulder, just below where his arm met his torso.

“Claude,” your voice is suddenly stern, as if directing him on a battlefield. “What is that.”

It was supposed to be a question, although it doesn’t come out sounding like one. Claude spins around, rippling the otherwise calm water.

“Ah— huh?” He feigns confusion, yet even as he does he backs to the edge of the pool, as if to shield the wound from view. “Don’t tell me you were _ spying _on me just now, teach.”

His tone is coy, but not coy enough to distract you from the matter at hand.

“Did that happen today? In the desert?”

“Nah, it’s from ages ago. Seriously.”

He’s lying, and you both know it.

“Why didn't you tell me, Claude?" His name echoes off the sauna’s stone walls. After a pregnant pause, Claude shrugs. A smile plays on his lips, but it doesn’t reach the rest of his face.

"You would have made me retreat," he says matter-of-factly. "Which would have been bad for morale. It’s tactics 101."

Tactics 101 differed greatly from his usual _‘run first, ask questions later’ _ methodology. You open your mouth to say as much, but Claude tuts and shakes his head.

_ The nerve. _

"Let's let bygones be bygones," he winks. "I'm still alive, aren't I?"

_ But for how much longer? _

You know a losing battle when you see one. Instead of arguing, you opt to sink back into the water, a long-suffering sigh sneaking from your throat. Claude watches you, and a complicated emotion glints in his green eyes. 

Time passes in relative silence. Somewhere outside, a dog barks at the Horsebow Moon.

“Hey,” Claude finally offers. His tone is uncharacteristically pinched. “I’m sorry I made you worry. I promise I’m taking care of myself.”

He wades to the stone platform and retrieves the pot of salve. 

“See? Medicine from Manuela. She said a coat of this’ll have me good as new.”

Emotions sprint through you mind. Shame, for fretting over a grown man, as if you were his mother. Guilt, for snapping so sharply at him. Regret, for not being able to protect him in the first place. 

There were so many things— _ people _— you couldn’t protect.

You feel everything, but show nothing. 

_ “Hrrg!” _

Claude’s strained voice bails you out of your own head, as it had done many times before. You look up, only to find him contorted, face red with effort. The fingers on his right hand drip with greenish salve, and he grasps desperately at the skin of his back, mere inches away from his wound.

“Do you… need help?” You ask, and Claude nods, looking sheepish. It's… sort of cute.

“I could reach it if I stretched out a little first,” he says, wading to your side of the bath and offering you the salve pot. It smells like the greenhouse— wet and earthy— mixed with the distinctly acrid tang of medicine. Claude settles on the underwater bench, his back turned to you. 

It looks worse up close— so much so that you have to keep yourself from wrinkling your nose. You dig into the salve and go to work, gently massaging it in, focusing on the places where the cut looks the deepest.

Claude shivers intensely at your touch. You immediately recoil, as if touching a tongue of flame.

“Did I hurt you?” You ask, nervously glancing from him, to your hand, to the salve pot. Claude shakes his head.

“No, I— ah,” he trails off. “It’s just… it’s been a long time since someone touched me like that.”

His words send a jolt of electricity down your spine, and you suddenly become acutely aware of how close he is, how broad his shoulders are, how _ warm _your naked body feels.

A small part of you wants to get up and leave.

A much larger, louder part convinces you to lean in closer, to put your hands back on his shoulder.

_ He’s not a child anymore,_ you think to yourself. He was taller, stronger, with a deeper voice and emptier eyes. 

He’s not a child anymore. He never was a child— not really.

You resume your work. When the small pot empties, you continue pressing your fingers into the hard coils of Claude’s back, releasing the tension stored under his skin. Jeralt had shown you how many moons ago, guiding your small hands, pointing out the difference between muscles fatigued by a blade and muscles fatigued by a bow.

Claude moans, and the sound is deep, guttural. His trembling quiets as the minutes go by, and he all but melts in your hands. You smooth your thumbs over the base of his neck, and his head lolls to one side.

_ It’s been a long time since someone touched me like that. _

His words echo in your head. How long had he gone without basic human affection? What horrors did he witness in your absence?

And what of the others? Were they kept up at night by the atrocities of war? Did they, too, have knots in their muscles, scars on their skin?

Not for the first time that night, you feel angry with yourself. Angry for leaving so suddenly, when there was so much still to be done. Angry for acting rashly, for thinking only of yourself.

What if you had _died? _What would have happened if you _hadn't_ returned to Garreg Mach on the eve of the forsaken Millennium Festival? Who would have been there to mend Claude's wounds, to rally the others amidst the gruesome realities they had yet to face?

You let your arms fall back into the bath, too overcome to continue.

Claude turns to face you, and again the water around him ripples away. The torchlight is nearly gone now— the last embers barely casting a shadow of light on his face.

There’s something different about him. He looks… _ unsteady._ Vulnerable. Very unlike the Claude that had fought at your side for so long.

“You can stop me if I’m speaking out of turn,” he starts, and his voice is suddenly graveled. “But back before all of… _ this, _I always sort of hoped that you and I would stay close after I graduated.”

“And then you disappeared, and I thought maybe I’d lost my chance to get to know you. _ Outside _ of the classroom, that is,” he speaks faster now. “Not that getting to know you inside the _ war _ room is much better, really. But it’s _ something.”_

He leans into you, the skin of his shoulder brushing against yours. It’s warm, the water is warm, _ all _of you is warm, as if you were existing in some sort of hazy dream. And yet, through the clouds and the steam and the swirling perfume, his words cut their way right to your heart. 

“Do you understand, Byleth?”

“Yes,” you say, breathless. No pet name could ever come close to the sound of your real name tumbling from his mouth. 

Claude reaches out and runs the back of his palm down your jaw until his fingers rest under your chin. His forehead is inches away from yours, tendrils of his dark hair tickling your skin. His face is full of precious metal— copper freckles, silver tongue.

He's the most golden of them all. He always had been.

“You’ll tell me if you want me to stop, right?”

But he needn’t worry, because _ you _ are the one that bridges the forbidden gap, _ you _ are the one that presses your lips against his with all the pent-up fervor of five unlived years. It’s _ you _that slips a hand out of the water and up his chest, resting over his rapidly beating heart.

He kisses you back with an intensity that matches yours. There is no awkwardness, no trial and error. You slot together as if you were two halves of the same whole. 

It had always been like that, though. On the battlefield, Claude slows enemies with bolts to their chests, just long enough for you to strike them down with your blade. Around the Academy, he was the cheery foil to your serious gaze, making the two of you more palatable together than you were apart. And now…

He tangles his fingers into your hair, tipping your head back to press a kiss into your neck. You body responds autonomously to his touch— back arching, skin burning. Your mouth falls open and you loose a sound unlike any sound you’d ever made before.

You feel everything, and for once, you think you may be showing it.

"I've wanted this for so long," Claude whispers the words into the skin of your throat, and goosebumps prickle to life along your arms.

You feel the same way, however before you can say as such he's back on your lips, hungrier than before, insistent for—

The sauna doors creak open, and a sliver of moonlight cuts the bath in two. Claude blanches, pulling away from you. In a panic, you do the only thing that comes to mind and dunk his head under the water’s surface.

“Hello?”

It’s Ignatz, stepping tentatively into the doorway. He spots you and immediately turns a violent shade of pink.

“Ah, P-professor! I’m sorry, I didn’t know you were in here!”

“No need to apologize,” you keep your voice smooth and level. “I was actually just about to leave. Do you mind looking away while I get dressed?”

“Yes, of course!” Ignatz stammers, turning heel to face the stone wall. “I’m sorry again, really!” 

You tap Claude, who surfaces with his mouth open, retort at the ready. You press a finger to his lips, inclining your head towards Ignatz. 

Claude’s eyes widen with understanding. He slinks soundlessly out of the bath and gathers his belongings before disappearing into one of the sauna’s dark hallways. You follow suit, toweling off at light-speed and slipping back into your clothes.

Ignatz bades you good-night sheepishly as you pass through the double doors.

If he only knew. 

* * *

The nighttime air feels blissfully cool against your heated skin as you walk across the overgrown Academy lawn. The monastery is silent, save for the muffled sound of owls fluttering by.

Many of the dormitory doors lay open and crooked, their contents long ransacked by thieves. Even your room had been in a state of disarray upon your return, although it had never really been clean to begin with. You fit the key inside the lock and push the door open, only to catch a tall shadow out of the corner of your eye.

“Fancy seeing you out so late,” Claude appears behind you, his eyes twinkling mischievously. His hair is still damp, and his tunic is askew (or is it on backwards?)

“Hey, can I come in for a sec? I have a few questions about this tactics refresher…”


	2. Chapter 2

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Please note the changed rating- there's a sex scene at the end of this! Here's your chance to click away if that's not your thing :)

The chair by your desk is much too small for Claude. Even so, he looks up at you expectantly, attentively, the light from your hastily lit candle glinting off his single silver earring. You pace around your room, head spinning, stepping occasionally over his outstretched legs.

“Um,” you begin.  _ Very smooth. _ “You… had a question?”

“Yeah, but it can probably wait,” Claude reclines, and the chair squeaks dangerously. “Seems to me like you’ve got a few questions of your own.”

He’s right, as he tends to be. Questions buzz between your ears like bees in the greenhouse.

How long had he harbored these feelings? Had he told anyone else? What would become of such a relationship after the war? A hundred more rise to your lips, but you quell them all in favor of one.

“Back there… What  _ was  _ that?”

“Well, that was… that was me, confessing my love for you,” he tries to sound nonchalant, but there’s a distinct edge to his voice, one that’s not usually there. “You took it pretty well, from what I recall.  _ Aaand  _ then we made out.”

_ “Claude!” _

“Well, it’s true! You were there, you should know.”

_ There  _ was the attitude, back from its brief respite. He winks, and you have to look away to hide your reddening cheeks. Never in a thousand moons did you expect to find yourself in your current situation, talking of love and… and  _ making out  _ with a former student. Sure, you’d fantasized about it (about  _ him)  _ back in the day, during a few choice moments of weakness, but that’s all it had been— a fantasy.

Until now.

Claude looks totally unaffected by your revelations, as if the night’s events had lined up perfectly with one of his schemes. He hums as he flips idly through one of the textbooks on your desk, presumably to give you time to think. 

And think, you do.

You couldn’t deny the feelings you had for him— your behavior in the bath house was proof enough of that. But such feelings had no place in times of war. Stepping onto the battlefield besides your lover was a punishment that you weren’t keen to subject yourself to.

It was already hard enough as is.

And yet…

Things had been different between the two of you since your return. You found yourself making excuses to seek him out during the minutes between training sessions and strategy meetings. Misplaced objects, schedule changes…  _ anything  _ was a good enough reason to knock on his dormitory door, or tap on his shoulder as he pored over dusty books in the library. Seeing his bright smile and hearing his  _ ‘Teach! What a pleasant surprise!’ _ could comfort you unlike anything else.

He was the candle in the inn’s window, piercing through the blackest part of your nights.

Maybe you  _ needed  _ him by your side.

Your thoughts are interrupted by the telltale  _ clunk  _ of metal on wood. Claude suddenly scrambles from his seat, chasing after something. The book he had been reading shuffles shut on your desk, and for the first time you glimpse the cover.

_ Tactics Primer.  _ One of Jeralt’s books.

Your heart sinks.

It doesn’t take long for Claude to surface triumphantly, the thin ring you had hidden away within the pages of the book pinched between his fingers.

“Not a great hiding place, Teach,” he chides, pressing the ring into your hand. “If I were a thief— which I’m  _ not _ — I would’ve found that in a heartbeat.”

You shift the ring in your palm, watching the inlaid stones shift colors. Claude watches you, brow furrowed, and Jeralt’s words echo in your head.

_ One day, I hope you’ll give this ring to someone you love as well as I love her.  _

“Maybe you can keep it for me, then.”

You’d faced down demonic creatures and bloodthirsty generals, wyverns with glinting fangs and mages corrupted with dark magic. You’d stared down the gullet of evil more times than you could even count, and yet, offering the ring back to Claude takes more courage than any of it.

Claude blinks. For the first time ever, you see him skip a beat.

“I, uh. Yeah,” he manages. “I’d be happy to look after it.”

He accepts the ring from your outstretched palm and twists it onto his finger. It’s a snug fit, but it works. The sight awakens something in you, and can’t help but run into his open arms.

He holds you, shuffling slowly back and forth, running a hand through your hair. For the second time in your life, tears escape from your eyes, rolling hot and wet down your face.

“Hey, you’re okay,” Claude’s voice is barely above a whisper. “We’re okay.”

He hums as he rocks, and you’re reminded of the dance the two of you shared on the night of the Academy Ball. It had been… a little awkward, all things considered, exacerbated by the chorus of  _ awws  _ rising from the rest of the Golden Deer.

Things were different now.

_ You  _ were different now, not only in appearance but in heart, as well. You once believed the fighting would never end, that your destiny was to wield a sword until the very same cut you down. But suddenly, a new path was unfurling in front of you— a path that started with the ring shining from Claude’s finger.

“So where do we go from here?”

You catch even yourself off-guard with the question. Claude tips your head up and thumbs away the tear on your cheek.

“Wherever you want,” there’s sadness in his easy smile. “Listen I—”

He stops mid-sentence, mouth open. You swear you can see his thoughts spinning behind his eyes as he thinks about what to say.

“I have very few obligations here,” he finally decides on. “In Fódlan, I’m not a king, or a ruler, or even a very well-known guy. I owe it to this land to see the war through, but that’s about it.”

Another pause. Another moment of carefully calculating his words.

“After this, we could do anything.  _ You  _ could be my obligation.

“That doesn’t sound particularly romantic,” you quip, your voice thick. Even so, you find yourself being drawn into him— a moth to a golden flame, a weary traveler shuffling out of the cold.

“Yeah, well, I’ve never really been one for romance,” his voice takes on that same husky timbre it had in the bath house. “But I mean it. I think… I think I love you.”

It’s too much.

You nudge him backwards until his heels meet the edge of your bed. He sinks into it, resting his back against the wall, bringing you with him. You hitch yourself over his hips and press your lips to his, the smell of soap and honey filling your nose. He wraps his arms around your waist and pulls your body down on his, and for the first time you feel his every contour— every curve, every hard line.

It’s exquisite.  _ He’s  _ exquisite.

He looks up at you through half-lidded eyes, irises turned to jewels in the candlelight. His hands are tender, his skin soft and warm, the color of the caramels Jeralt used to buy off village merchants.

You work his tunic off, your movements slow and methodical. Doing so reveals the patchwork of scars that marr his arms and chest— favors of a life spent on the wrong side of a weapon. You run your fingers along each of them.

The crescent-shaped one on his right forearm from the abhorrent beast Miklan became under the influence of the Lance of Ruin. The one in the crook of his collarbone, left by the dagger of a deranged woman in Remire Village. It had been  _ your  _ blade that ended her life,  _ your  _ hand that pulled the knife from Claude’s neck.

There were many more you didn’t recognize— reminders of battles fought without you.

“I should’ve been there for you,” you whisper, touching a fingertip to one.

“What matters is that you’re here  _ now.” _

And with that, he quiets you with another volley on your lips, your jaw. His trembling hands sidle up your body and to your chest, where they curl around your breasts. The sensation blurs your vision, sends static jumping down your spine.

Claude may have gone untouched for a long while, but  _ you  _ had gone longer. He was quickly building you up to a peak, and you were unsure whether or not you’d make it back down.

You grind your hips down onto Claude’s, feeling the curve of his erection through his thin pants. He groans and arches underneath you, and his hands scrabble at the hem of your shirt, searching for purchase. When he finally finds it, he tugs the fabric over your head and tosses it aside.

“Byleth,” his wide eyes travel up and down your figure as your name escapes his lips. It’s sweeter than the most sacred of songs.

He sits up, one hand on the small of your back, the other guiding one of your breasts into his mouth. He rolls his tongue gently over your stiffening nipple, and you wrap your arms around his neck. When he teases you with gentle pressure from his teeth, you tip your head back, trying (and failing) to suppress a whine.

After giving your other breast some attention, he pulls away with a wet  _ shlick.  _ His eyes are wild, his hair’s a mess.

He’s never looked more alive.

“I’ve wanted to do that for  _ so long,”  _ he laments, his voice heavy with lust. Before you can respond he’s back at it, lavishing one of your nipples with his mouth and rubbing the other between his fingers. It kindles the flames deep inside you, makes you crave more of him.

You want to repay the favor, and so you pull away, ignoring Claude’s indignant  _ hey!  _ His tone disappears, however, when you pull away his pants, freeing his rigid cock. You waste no time in wrapping your hand around the base, taking the rest of him into your mouth.

He claws at your bedsheets, his body suddenly one rigid line, and you can’t help but grin. It makes you feel powerful, the way you could bring pleasure to a man such as he with only your tongue. He threads a hand into your hair and eases you down onto his shaft, his jaw tightening as his head rubs against the back of your throat. 

“Good?” You surface for breath after a while, a thin string of saliva tying you to his twitching member.

He moans in affirmation, coaxing you back down onto his length. Before long, his other hand finds your hair too, and the pressure on your neck becomes more insistent, more desperate. You love the feeling of his swollen cock in your mouth— so much so that when he buries himself to the hilt in your throat you feel a rush of heat between your thighs.

You pull off, licking the wetness from your lips. Claude’s wild expression from before is gone, replaced with something darker and more predatory. It makes your stomach flip with anticipation.

He loops his arms under yours and flips you beneath him. Both his and your pants are off in mere moments, joining the growing pile of laundry on the floor. He looks at you through dark lashes as he eases your thighs apart, maintaining that eye contact as he licks a wide stripe from your heat to your navel.

You nearly unravel right then and there, balling your fists, squirming in his firm grasp. He digs his fingers into the flesh of your thighs and grins.

“Ah, so soon?” he’s arrogant, haughty, a look of satisfaction plastered on his face. 

_ That’s  _ the Claude you knew, although you think his words would sound better through a mouthful of your pussy. The whiskers lining his jaw tickle the insides of your thighs as he stoops back down and washes his tongue over your clit.

It feels… it reminds you of a time long ago when you discovered a minor Thunder spell could supercharge a mundane object. You spent many a lonely night locked in your quarters, desperately pressing the broken hilt of an old sword to your clit as it buzzed with magical energy.

Take that, and multiply it by one-thousand.  _ That’s  _ how Claude’s tongue felt, rolling slowing over your swollen clit, prodding at your entrance. He eventually relinquishes his grip on one of your thighs, opting to hitch your leg up over his shoulder. His freed hand joins his mouth, and he pushes an explorative finger into your folds. 

It feels good, although it’s obvious that he’s a little inexperienced. You reach down and readjust his hand, guiding his fingers to where they need to be— the spot that makes your knees weak. 

Claude raises an eyebrow.

“Still got things to teach me, huh.”

You can only moan his name in response, which seems to reinvigorate him. Your body loosens and begs for more as he pumps in and out of you. When you tell him as such he obliges, adding another digit, and then another. It helps to quell the burn, but it doesn’t put it out.

Claude’s composure slips away as he devours you, his pace becoming frantic and sloppy, his fingers reaching deeper with every stroke. He eventually lets go of your other thigh in favor of palming desperately at his own cock, a drop of sweat beading on his brow.

“Byleth,” for the second time, your name is a requiem gracing his lips. He clambers over you and returns to your lips, tasting of sex and musk. You can feel the tip of his trembling cock pressing eagerly against your entrance. 

“I want you,” he murmurs. “I  _ need  _ you.”

You need him too, in more ways than one. 

Wordlessly, you incline your hips upward, and he shudders as his length slips inside you. The moon and all the stars blaze to life behind your eyes, blocking out every senseless thought except Claude.

_ Your  _ Claude.

He rocks into you, slowly at first, his face buried in your shoulder. It’s the best kind of agony, the kind that brings a curl to your toes and a sob to your lips. He fills you, then empties you, only to fill you again. You grasp one of your own breasts, tweaking your nipple in tandem to his rhythm. Claude notices, and moves to take the other one in his mouth again, stoking the fire that threatens to consume you whole. 

“I love you,” you say, and it’s not only because of how lewd he looks with his tongue on your flesh, or the delicious friction of his cock pushing into you. 

It’s his calm demeanor, his steady resolution. It’s how he would step between danger and those unprepared to weather it with a smile on his face.

It’s the way that, despite five long years of war, he had still saved room in his heart for you.

Claude’s hips stutter to a stop. He releases your breast, a look you can only describe as wonder glittering in his jade eyes.

“You… you  _ do?” _

It strikes you as a little odd, having a conversation about love while committing an act of lust. And yet, at the same time it made perfect sense. This was  _ Claude  _ after all.

You nod, framing his face with your hands, tucking stray pieces of dark hair behind his ears. His lips fall upon yours, and he moves once more. The roaring fire within you blazes to life, even more intense than it had been.

You revel in the feeling of his skin, in the sharp  _ thwick  _ that rings out each time his body meets yours. You lose yourself in the promises he whispers into your mouth, committing to memory the sound of him saying your name.

He scoops you up and twists so that you’re positioned on top of him, and you gasp at the newfound leverage. You feel words bubble to your lips— curses, praises. Claude grips the flesh of your ass and shunts you downwards. His eyes roll into his head as you slide up and down on his cock until—

Your fingers go numb, followed by your arms. In fact, every part of you goes numb as the inferno in your belly finally spills over. Your body shakes, racked with wave after wave of pleasure and release. 

Claude cries out too, his arms encircling your waist as he pushes into you one last time. A wave of wet heat spreads out between your thighs, and it quenches the remnants of the blaze that had consumed you moments before.

You both collapse, sweaty and spent. Claude’s chest rises and falls rapidly as he slows his breath.

“I know we need to talk,” he says after what feels like forever, his voice low. “I know—”

“Not yet,” you interrupt him. “Not now.”

* * *

The climb down the mountain is almost as good as the climb up. You lay your head on Claude’s chest, lulled by the steady thump of his heart. He traces patterns on your back and hums a broken tune as the last remnants of your candle burn to ash. 

“Have you ever been to Almyra?” The way he says  _ Almyra  _ is reverent, like a devotee speaking of their deity. You shake your head, your eyes heavy with sleep.

“You’d like it there. With me.”

And you believe him.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> i have a new twitter @ klairev0yance (with a zero). Send me your writing, or let me know what I should write next!

**Author's Note:**

> I just needed to get this out of my system


End file.
